Leaves From a Mission Diary

SAN SALVADOR, locally known as Cat Island, the scene of my mission, is in the Bahama group of the British West Indies. The work of the English Church mission is carried out in these islands under the able Bishop of Nassau. While I was on Cat Island, I had the help of another white minister, whose modesty forbids that even in my journal I should mention the outstanding qualities he possessed for that particular work, and the immeasurable good he did in the way of uplifting the sluggish islanders, especially along agricultural lines.

San Salvador lies about one hundred miles to the southeast of New Providence, on which stands Nassau, the largest and capital city of the group. The inhabitants are all black — descendants of slaves brought from Africa. They are considered locally to be the worst people of all the Bahama Islands, but my own experience of them is quite to the contrary. Their evil reputation is probably due to the fact that the island itself has been long neglected by the white settlers who raised the standards in the other islands, and also to the fact that the poor harbor facilities do not allow of much communication with the capital city.

The natives are markedly without the character to sustain interest and enthusiasm in any field of endeavor; but at the same time it must be noted that they are quite happy and content with conditions. Where a few more ambitious souls have sprung up, they have been able to seek better things in Miami, Florida, until the recent immigration restrictions of the American Government closed that avenue of release from mental and economic bondage.

To-day the much depleted population numbers about forty-five hundred souls. The largest settlement holds some five hundred inhabitants, and the smallest perhaps a mere dozen.

In addition to the English mission, which at present has no white minister, there is a very strong Baptist mission, carried on entirely by the native Baptists and staffed with local colored ministers. This group has by far the largest number of church adherents. The Methodists have one small congregation on the island, also in charge of a colored man.

My mission contained ten small churches. At the head of each of these is a colored catechist, who holds services and carries on the work of the Church generally, in the absence of a white minister.

The stress of work, and the fact that during the past few years the mission on the island has been steadily declining, made it necessary for the other white minister and myself to be separated most of the time. Months would pass during which neither of us would see a white face, or have anyone of the least degree of real intellect with whom to talk. This in itself was perhaps our greatest hardship.

January 9. — Nassau, Bahama Islands. The harbor is dropping slowly astern. Masts, short and tall, are making tentative stabs at the hurrying clouds overhead. The wind is fresh on our quarter, and is waving the tall palms that line the shore in a sort of last good-bye to us as we say our own good-byes to Nassau, to civilization, and turn our prow to the east, where awaits this strange new life into which we are venturing. . . . The dusky crew are making all preparations for the voyage: trimming the sails, and stowing away the oddments of our copious baggage which came aboard in the last-minute rush. Someone is singing the ‘Maris Stella’ — so dear to these native mariners. The Bishop, now in trim yachting cap and blue reefer, tells me that he was anxious to name this boat the ‘Maris Stella,’ but some queer shipping laws do not allow it. Perhaps ‘t is best so; the former episcopal yacht finally joined the Nassau rum-runners, carrying with her the ill-fitting name, ‘Message of Peace.’

January 12. — The days have been very lazy. A northeaster tossed us about some, and then gave way to listless calm. For three days now we have skirted the Exuma Cays, few of them inhabited. Like all Bahamian land, they are dull, flat, and uninteresting, but they do make a perfect frame for the pictures of water, which are indescribable. Eyes grow strained and tired with watching the ceaseless changes of color. Greens, purples, blues of all shades, are constantly mingling, fading, reappearing, as sun and cloud chase each other high over the Bahamian Banks.

Last night the Bishop talked in his sleep. Dicky, his Negro cabin-boy, says: ‘My lord hit hisself t’ree times and say “Nova Scotia.”’ So docs Dicky render Nobis quoque.

If this wind continues to freshen, we shall reach our destination to-night. Cat Island! Curious name; it must have some origin, but no native seems to know of it. The map designates it San Salvador, and thereby sets it up as a rival to Watling’s Island as the possible landfall of Columbus in the New World. I was once convinced of the Watling’s theory, — most people are, — but loyalty to my new parish must now change my mind.

Caught two fish as we passed through Galliot Cut this morning: one a barracuda, the other a fine black-fin snapper. The latter served very well as a table dish. After moon-set, in the early hours of the morning, Jo, the mate, called us to see the Southern Cross. I had no idea it was visible anywhere in the Bahamas.

January 13. — We dropped anchor at Arthur’s Town, Cat Island, as the dusk was mellowing the glaring colors of the little town. A huge crowd — relatively speaking — gathered on the quay to bid us welcome. Always emotionally taut, these Negroes let themselves go in a rousing cheer as we scrambled up the rickety ladder. We were led across the street to our future home, open, and lighted with one candle guttering in the wind. It contains only four tiny rooms and an unroofed porch. There is no ceiling, and the partitions do not reach to the roof.

January Ferguson (I believe he is the sexton) was foremost in enthusiasm over our arrival, especially when he learned that now there are to be two ministers on the island, one with headquarters here, the other stationed at the Bight. He danced a jig of joy on the dining-room table, until the Bishop, fearing for the only piece of furniture in the house, bade him desist. . . . The stop here is only temporary; two services, and then we are to ‘trip’ for settlements farther down the shore. Dumfries and the Bight are to be visited, and then we shall round the Devil’s Point — ominous name — for Port Howe.

January 14. — Left Arthur’s Town yesterday and dropped down to Dumfries for afternoon service. This is a very small settlement with no church. The people want one badly, but there are no funds. Later anchored for the night in Bennett’s Harbor and gave them a service there this morning. The church is in frightful disrepair and very dirty. These local colored catechists, who carry on when there are no ministers resident, seem to have little idea of carrying out the maxim that cleanliness is next to godliness. . . . Sailed all day in direction of the Bight, but wind fell off and we could not make it.

January 15. — Skipped the Bight, and came on here to Port Howe. This may have been Columbus’s landingplace. We are anchored now under the lee of Columbus Bluff. . . . Just returned from service. The Bishop introduced S— and me to the flock. Beside me sat the famous ‘Mother Ethel,’ the only woman preacher in the Islands. She garbs herself like one of Fra Angelico’s angels. As we passed her tiny chapel, — native Baptist, — we noticed that doors and windows were being opened by the female sexton, and we suspected a rival ‘meeting.’ Inquiry elicited, however, that it was a graceful gesture of welcome to his lordship and the two new parsons. We are told that Mother Ethel is a wonderful preacher. Mr. P—, the white Baptist superintendent in Nassau, says that she has had no education and has never read a sermon book, but in gracefulness of thought and simplicity of expression she can put to shame many an eminent preacher.

Service over, the walk from the church to the beach was most amusing. The whole congregation must accompany us with lusty shouting of militant Church hymns; but alas! the Bishop’s stride was too strenuous a tempo for the perfect coördination of leg and lung, and the resultant hop-skip-andjump effect was ludicrous. From the beach we embarked in the cutter, and as we rowed slowly into the moonpath the good folk on the shore sang ‘God be with you till we meet again.’ The night air was warm and soft, fragrant with the tang of the sea mingling with the scent of the beach jasmine. Ahead lay the yacht, the moon riding like a beacon on her mizzenmast; astern the curving beach, glistening white against the fringe of sad-singing palm trees; the faint creak of the rowlocks told us that the crew was keeping time to the mellow voices of the darkies on the shore. A scene, an experience, that will live with one forever.

January 16. — The wind has us bottled up in this harbor, which Columbus spoke of as being ‘able to accommodate the combined navies of the world.’ One wonders if the dangerous, clawlike reefs enclosing the harbor can have been the origin of the name ‘Cat Island’ — your mariner is an imaginative soul.

January 17. — Sailed this morning about eight bells, but the wind, blowing almost a gale, is dead ahead, and a heavy cross-sea is running in the channel. Have been able to make no headway and are anchored for the night under the lee of Long Island — the Fernandina of Columbus’s log.

January 18. — The storm has abated, and we are well on the way to Rum Cay. Just now we are sailing past the island which Columbus called ‘Isla de Santa Maria de la Concepción.’ It is a beauteous spot: one large, uncut emerald, tossed in a bowl of opals.

January 19. — Port Nelson, Rum Cay. Old Mr. R— was on the wharf to bid us welcome. His hair and beard have known no barbering for a whole twelvemonth. He must return to Nassau on the yacht, for ill health has ended his labors in this strenuous climate. He is much upset about it, and declares he can carry on. His small and oh! so dilapidated rectory is very pathetic — one hen nesting on the pantry safe, and another in a box on the chest of drawers in his bedroom. His kitchen — always a small, separate building in this climate — was blown away in a recent hurricane; there was no money with which to construct another, so cooking is done on a box filled with sand and ashes, in the open. The reverend gentleman complains much of fleas. I can well believe it, for on his own admission he is too worn out to bother about having the place cleaned.

January 22, — Our stay at Rum Cay was brief. There are few Church people there now, so many hundreds have left the island to migrate to Miami, Florida. We returned with a fair wind to Arthur’s Town. The excitement of arrival is over and we are settling into some sort of routine. The furniture — a truly florid compliment in that name — is unpacked. . . .

Hourly I am learning joyful, surprising, and disquieting facts about the island. There are some five thousand inhabitants, all black, scattered in more than two dozen settlements strung out on this side of the island. This side faces the west and is on the Exuma Sound; the other side is exposed to the roll of the Atlantic. We have churches in ten of these settlements, which must be visited regularly and as often as possible. We shall both have to have horses, and I can see that a boat would be useful. Arthur’s Town seems to be the largest of the settlements. It is built along two main roads. The beach, just a few yards from my door, seems to be the most attractive thing about it.

January 25. — Elijah Campbell came in this evening and we pumped him for information about life on the island. The people eke out a bare existence from the rocky and unfertile land. Soil, as everywhere in the Bahamas, is found only in the potholes in the honeycomb rock, as this coral formation is locally called. Fields are found chiefly on the east side of the island, and some produce will grow in the sand which washes inland in the hurricane season and from which the salt is finally washed by the rains.

Money comes in chiefly from the sisal industry. The broad green leaves of the plant, often more than four feet long, are cut in a peculiar way called ‘stripping,’ and soaked for weeks in the shallow swamps that lie all along the centre of the island. When the pulp has completely decomposed, the fibrous remains are beaten on the rocks to cleanse them, and then bleached in the sun. Baled, the fibre is shipped to Nassau for export abroad, where it is made into rope and binder twine.

We discussed the food problem, which looms up in an alarming way. Vegetables are scarce, and of a limited variety. No effort has been made to increase the variety grown, and potatoes, yams, cassavas, and eddo roots seem to constitute the chief diet of the native. An inferior corn is grown, which is ground into a coarse meal. The peculiar lay of this island makes fish scarce at the north end, though I suspect the natural laziness of the natives has somewhat to do with that also. Fresh meat, Elijah tells us, will be available perhaps twice monthly; then only mutton. I do not like that ‘perhaps.’ Everyone seems thoroughly contented with conditions, which seem to us so very primitive. It is the kind of content that is devastating to any kind of progress.

January 27. — Saw a yacht coming in this morning, and became quite excited over the prospect of our first news from the outside world. It turned out to be Major O—, the magistrate, arriving to hold a court of inquiry over an alleged shooting case. S— was asked to sit on the bench with the Major and listen in. The verdict was ‘accidental.’

February 5. — Mail day! Our monthly mail came in, bringing the first letters and papers we have had since leaving Nassau. All work stops in the settlement and the tiny post office is surrounded by an eager crowd all day. There are no other centres of delivery except here and at the Bight. Some of these people walk as much as twenty miles on the chance of getting a letter. We were kept busy all day with requests to read their letters to them. Most of their mail seems to come from relatives in Miami, and they usually enclose a dollar bill, which is always eagerly pounced upon. Poor people — they see so little ready money!

February 6. — The faithful assembled to rebuild part of our garden wall, which seems to have been carried off, stone by stone, when there was no one in residence here. About sixty persons turned up, men, women, and children. They gathered stones from waste land hereabout, and toted them in on their heads. They carry all their burdens this way. Sunday a woman who lives afar turned up at church with her shoes balanced on her head. She had apparently found them painful on the long walk, so put them on at the church door. The wall itself looks quite fine, and will serve us as a protection against the horses, pigs, and fowls that have been constantly wandering about our garden,

February 7. — S— left in the Silver Palm for the Bight. He will visit, en route, Knowles and Smith Bay. I have a feeling that this tour from settlement to settlement will subdue the restlessness that seems inevitable.

February 8. — Watched a crowd of some twenty persons, beside the crew, go off for Nassau in a small sloop, not more than twenty-five feet over all. A dangerous number on such a tiny craft. Although this is the usual means of interisland travel, I am told that they carry little food or water, and never know just when they will reach their destination. Sometimes they take seven days to do the hundredmile trip, and have to put in at various cays on the way to get food and water.

Later, walked over to the east side of the island with the local policeman. It is truly beautiful there: long, wide beaches of pinky-white sand, as fine as sugar, all fringed with sea-grape bushes, with their round green and red leaves, and tall coconut palms, from which we gathered nuts and drained them of their milky nectar to quench our thirst. Coming back, Baker, who had taken his gun on the chance of a shot at the wild pigeons, stopped to adjust his trigger-guard. The gun went off as I was walking directly into the line of fire. A second or so more and I might have been ‘done.'

February 10. — Visited Orange Creek in a small sailboat. The Creek is the most charming spot on the island. The church stands on a slight rise, overlooking the bay, and the priest’s lodge nestles near by in a grove of tall coconut palms. Alas, the church is in terrible disrepair, and dear old Joshua C—, the catechist, seems too far gone to do much work. I made him take the service, to see just how he did it, and he convulsed me by expectorating solemnly out of the window during alternate verses of the Psalms. . . .

February 12. — Medical cases are coming in thick and fast, now that these people have found out that we have a case of drugs and a willingness to help. I feel keenly the lack of medical knowledge, though they all profess great faith in me, and that is half the battle. They all diagnose their ills in exactly the same way. No matter what they are suffering from, it is always: ‘Please, sir, could n’t you give me one pills?’ When I try to find out where and what the ache is, they always say, ‘Got a kinda bearin’-down feeling, Fader.’ Poor folk! They have never had a doctor on the island, and must cure all their ills with their own concoctions, made from herbs and bush. Some of the old folk seem quite adept at this; their nostrum is ‘gale-o’-wind bush.’ I imagine it has the effect on the system that the name implies. Usually cuts and wounds are treated very casually. Their whole system of living, their ideas of ventilation and sanitation, are at least a thousand years behind the times.

February 13. — Attended the Acting Commissioner’s court this morning. What a farce! Is this the majesty of empire? A man with no education, no idea of law, no qualifications whatever, but with only an inflated opinion of himself, dispenses justice (?) to these poor ignorant people. It is to be hoped that the white Commissioner promised will soon turn up. But this man now acting is also the schoolmaster here, and every day holds sway over some hundred and fifty youngsters. The whole educational system on these outlying islands is deplorable.

February 14. — Embarked in the Silver Palm for the Bight at 12.30 P.M. Wind very light; fell away entirely at sundown, when we were still about four miles from Knowles. We had to scull in, and reached here by 8.30 P.M. I was regaled with a dish of pancakes and the inevitable mess of corn meal, cooked very stiff, and nothing to send it down with. It all speaks of the poverty of the islanders.

February 15. — Tripped before dawn with a fresh wind on our quarter, and made the Bight by noon. Mr. W—, the colored Commissioner, and the local policeman were on the wharf to welcome me. Mrs. W— sent in a large tray of dinner, for which I was very grateful, especially to see their kindness — even a vase of flowers on the tray. In the evening Mr. W— came in, and we talked long on the color question and the crying needs of the island. He is an exceedingly well educated colored man. The rectory here, having always been headquarters, is a much more livable place than at Arthur’s Town. The garden is quite beautiful and shows the labor that my predecessor put into it. Saw the grave, still unused, which he had prepared when he thought he was going to die. Perhaps I may be the one to use it, after all.

February 17. — Good congregation out this morning. Later took horse to the Old Bight. The animal was very frisky and shied at something suddenly, throwing me off, but fortunately with no hurt to myself. The church at the Old Bight is the largest and barest in the island. It was built in memory of some member of the Balfour family who was here in the old slave days, by his relatives in England.

One girl in the front bench amused me much by singing: —

During service the tide had risen in the creek, and I got wet above the waist, fording it on horseback. Preached again in the evening, and concluded that three sermons a day are a wearying duty when mixed up with a long ride in the hot sun.

February 29. — Spent the day dynamiting in preparation for some gardening. In the evening gave a ‘filling-in’ party. Promised refreshments to all who would come and tote sand from the beach, to fill the holes we had made. The promise brought about two hundred people of all ages. The work was done in about two hours and then we stopped for refreshments, which consisted of flour cakes and swichil, a much relished native drink, made from limes and peppermint, sweetened with brown sugar, and colored with ‘cochineal ‘ from the pod of the cactus plant. After ‘eats’ they made a huge fire on the public square, and danced to the music of their own voices and of a drum, made by covering a lard tub with a sheepskin, drawn very tight and heated. The songs are all native made, and sung to tunes that reek of the African jungle. They work themselves up to a wild fury in the dance, scream, clap their hands ceaselessly, and contort themselves in wild, sinuous, and graceful movements, unlike anything one would expect in the Western Hemisphere. Their latent barbarism comes out to the full in these ‘fire dances.’

March 29. — Returned to-day from a brief visit to Nassau, where one gorged one’s self on good food and much conversation. Managed to find time to beg enough money to repair at least one church. Fairly squandered my quarter’s pay on all sorts of stores to bring back. Will have to get used all over again to doing without meat, ice, fresh butter, milk, and so on. The voyage back on the mail boat was awful. Left on Thursday night, but the crew were too drunk to get farther than East End, so we had to anchor and wait for the dawn, while they slept off their stupor. Sailed all day Friday against a heavy northeaster and in torrents of driving rain. There were nine colored women and four babies in the one small cabin, all of them beastly seasick, so I kept on deck despite the storm. The cook did his best to give us food, but it was a poor best. The wind shifted suddenly to the south about four bells in the afternoon, and we were bucking a heavy cross-sea in the passage. The captain held out little hope of being able to land at Arthur’s Town, where we have no decent harbor, but he was kind enough to put in for the night behind the lee of Powell’s Point, Eleuthera. Once inside the reef, it was calm, and there was still enough light for some of the crew to dive for conchs, which we enjoyed in a stew for supper — our first real meal of the day. Many lines were cast after the sun had set, and I was fortunate enough to hook a large shark. It required five of us to pull him in and he put up a wonderful fight. We finally got him alongside and shot him — took seven bullets to finish him off. When we hauled him on deck, we measured his length at seven feet, three inches.

This morning it was still squally, with a heavy sea running in Little Island Passage, but the captain, a seasoned mariner, did his best and landed me here about 3 P.M. They brought me off in a small boat. We could not attempt to land at the wharf, as the heavy seas that were rolling in would have dashed the boat to pieces. They ran her for the beach, where a great crowd had collected. As the curling breakers caught the boat and hurled her toward the beach, the men from the shore ran out to meet us and, picking me bodily from the boat, carried me, quite dry, to land. But alas! all my clothes and stores have had to go on to the Bight.

March 31. — Called to Dumfries, four miles away, to remove a bead from a small girl’s ear. She was in mortal fear of ‘de vite man,’ and three men had to hold her, that I might operate. She cried, screamed, and swore at me in a most putrid vocabulary. It was not until she had completely exhausted herself and could no longer struggle that I was able to remove the bead. The mother has promised to send in a fowl as a sort of payment. Poor as they are, they always try to show their gratitude with some gift. It is very touching.

April 6. — Hit upon a way to-day that I think will put a stop to this silly habit the women and girls have of daubing their faces with white powder. They have no idea how ludicrous they look with a great spot of white plastered on black cheeks, chins, and foreheads. Have spoken about this often with no effect, so to-day, after vesting, I got one of the boys to fetch a bit of coal and bedaubed my own face with black. Naturally when I appeared in church they could not contain themselves and roared with laughter. I bade them see how absurd a white face looked painted black, and tried to make them see that their black faces look just as ridiculous all whitened. Some of the men assure me that the lesson has sunk home.

April 8. — Visited old James T—, who is laid up with an infected foot. Suggested that he might like some magazines to look at, but he indignantly informed me that he ‘got one book. Fine book, all about ‘Arry Matthews an’ de quail.’ He seemed much surprised that one whom he called ‘Man o’ God’ should not have heard of this book. He insisted on struggling to his trunk and producing it. I was amused to discover that it is The Story of Joseph of Arimathea and the Holy Grail.

April 12. — The worst accident of all to-day. A man and boy nearly blown to bits, dynamiting fish on the other side of the island. It happened about 9 A.M. and news did not reach the settlement until about 1 P.M. They had been lying in agony for four hours. I had the horses saddled and hurried off to render first aid. Adderly, the man, has his right arm completely shattered and is covered with minor cuts and abrasions. Farrah, the boy, is worst injured about the eyes, which were packed with sand from the explosion. His chest and head are covered with tiny cuts made by flying sand. Managed to bring Farrah in on horseback, but had to improvise a stretcher for Adderly. The ten-mile journey back was awful, over rocky roads which are barely footpaths through the bush. He screamed with pain at every jolt, and they had to go so slowly that it was 8 P.M. before they reached here. The curious crowds, all wailing and screaming, were a great trial, and nearly every man in the village has made it an occasion to get drunk. Cleaned Farrah’s eyes out as well as possible, and he is resting quietly on my bed. Had to give Adderly a sleeping draught, and then post a police guard about his house to keep the crowd away. Sent a boy off to the Creek to have a boat hauled off and prepared to take them to Nassau in the morning.

April 13. — Got the poor fellows off this morning. But alas! it is dead calm, and we can still see them barely drifting, with sails hanging limp, about four miles out to sea, the sun blazing down hot upon them. They may be days getting to Nassau, in which case I doubt if Adderly will live.

April 17. — Have at last been able to persuade some of the boys to go in the sea with me. They insist that it is winter and too cold to bathe. The temperature is now averaging about 78°. They do need some sort of recreation. They seem to play no games, and the older ones have to go off to the fields as soon as school lets out. Have started a boys’ club, to meet every Tuesday. Tried reading to them at the first meeting, but they all went to sleep.

April 22. — Had my first funeral this morning. William L— rushed in last night to have me baptize his newborn baby that was dying. This morning he woke me up to beg a box out of which to fashion a coffin. I gave him a Saint Charles’s Cream box, and at the same time made plans to have the funeral at 9 A.M. Took the crucifer and acolytes to the house, where we met Wand his nine children ready for the long walk to the cemetery. Found that he had merely put the baby into the rough box, and one could hear the poor little thing rolling around. Walking along, I glanced back to see if I were walking too quickly for them, and to my horror found that W— had adopted the usual native method for carrying burdens, and had the box balanced nicely on his head. It was difficult to keep one’s composure, and the service was robbed of all solemnity. I shall have to get used to their casual way of doing things here.

April 24. — Called in to bring little George Dean out of the fits. Found them rubbing him down with a raw onion. They declare it is the best remedy for fits — maybe so, but it does make an awful stink. The little fellow seems to have a slight touch of sunstroke.

April 26. — Trixie appeared to-day. I was at lunch, and saw two lustrous black eyes peering at me around the corner of the door. They belonged to a small girl of about nine, who had wandered up here some seventeen miles from the Cove. Her story is very pathetic. She is one of the characteristic victims of the Florida migration. Parents left her years ago in care of a grandmother. She has suffered under terribly cruel treatment; the marks of beating are still on her little body, which is clothed in one ragged and very dirty garment. She said she had slept out in the bush for two nights, and had had no food. She seemed ravenous when I gave her some of my lunch. Had one of the women make her a new little garment, of which she is now very proud. She seems almost wild and clings to me like a frightened animal. A child who has never known any love or kindness. I suggested that she go to the beach and take a bath. She did; went in her new dress, and then returned with it in her hand, wringing it out as she walked along. One of the women has promised to take her in until we can find out what to do with her. Her case is not peculiar, but there is no home to which such waifs and strays can be sent.

April 28. — Time for study and seabathing has been more plentiful lately. Find it impossible to read or study at night now that the mosquitoes and sand flies are coming in on the heels of the rainy season. After sundown one dare not light the lamp, so it means sitting out on the porch, with a smothered fire in a pail sending up clouds of heavy smoke — our only protection against the pests. After sitting in complete loneliness and choking on smoke for three or four hours, one begins to feel the press of living so utterly shut off from one’s own kind.

At night it is impossible to sleep unless wrapped like a mummy from head to foot, for no netting will keep out the sand fly; a few hours wrapped like this, and the intense heat adds its burden to the night. It is almost impossible to get a good night’s rest.

May 1. — Started for Orange Creek this morning to be up here for a week. My cavalcade was truly impressive. I have learned that the only way to live at these outstations is to carry all the small comforts that one can. We left Arthur’s Town just before dawn, so as to travel in the cool of the morning. Two boys carried my mattress, slung on a pole, which they bore on their shoulders. Another boy had my round tin bathtub on his head. One carried a bundle of clothing and bedding, another my suitcase. Two carried boxes of provisions; still another bore a package of books, and there was a final one to carry my typewriter. I brought up the rear on my horse.

My quarters here consist of a oneroom thatched hut, measuring ten by ten. My own ‘boy’ will be billeted on the catechist.

The people here are as poor as anywhere else in the island, yet they came in to-day bearing little tokens of welcome in the way of fruit, mostly sapodillas, sugar cane, mameys, pawpaws, and bananas. A few brought guineacorn grits, and one small child of three, who was a little timid of ‘de vite man,’brought in a dead and rather smelly crab, which she had apparently found on the beach. It is the loyalty and devotion that these gifts signify which touch one so.

May 5. — Visited the school, which is held in the ruins of an old meetinghouse. The teacher, an elderly black woman, is as ignorant as any of the children she is supposed to teach. She tells me that when it rains she has to dismiss the children, as the roof leaks so badly. The benches and forms are all dropping to pieces and the floor is completely gone in some spots. I conclude that it will be almost impossible to do anything constructive in the way of education or economic uplift so long as the people live in mere handfuls in these widely scattered settlements. Yet, should the Government attempt to localize the populations on a few of the more fertile islands, I am sure it would meet with strong resistance.

May 24. — The people of Arthur’s Town celebrated the birthday of Queen Victoria, our Empire Day, in true loyal fashion. They gathered for a service in the church at 10 A.M. The local policeman had trained a handful of young men and boys to act as guard of honor to the Commissioner. This little army appeared in the most fantastic of getups; one boy went so far as to stick some broom straws in his hat. They used old shotguns or broomsticks, and took themselves almost too seriously. After service they headed the parade of villagers and school-children all around the town, accompanied by the band. This consisted of a tom-tom, a mouthorgan, and a concertina. At noon everyone assembled in the schoolhouse for speeches, songs, and the usual run of patriotic recitations by the children, which they rattled off in monotone throughout. Then came the inevitable refreshments of flour cakes and swichil. In the afternoon we had sports on the public square, and in the evening the older folk danced in the schoolroom. The orchestra was made up of the tomtom, the concertina, and a gin bottle scraped with a knife. The dancing was most barbaric. But how they did enjoy themselves!

May 30. — Obeah trouble to-day. An old man died yesterday and the funeral was set for 3 P. M. to-day. About noon his brother-in-law, who is the local Baptist preacher, came in to inform me that they had the witch doctor practising obeah on the body to ‘lay the spirit.’ I hurried to the house, but the rites were over. I informed the widow that in accordance with our diocesan regulations I should be unable to bury the body. She seemed much distressed, and so ignorant that I told her if she would have the body stripped of all charms, under my direction, I would consent to take the funeral. She agreed, and I called in some neighbors to assist. Found the body covered with various kinds of herbs, berries, and leaves, all with some superstitious significance. All the pockets were tightly sewed up with some sort of obeah inside them. The man held a cup in one hand and a plate in the other. In his breast pocket I found a fork, knife, and spoon. He had on boots, and in these was a handful of hard grains of corn. I asked what this meant and was informed that, if the spirit should walk about to trouble anybody, the grains of corn in the shoes would hurt his feet and he would go back and ‘lay down in he grave.’ I tried to reason that, since the plate and so forth showed he could eat, why could he not take off his shoes and remove the corn grains? ‘Oh no! Obeah man put dem dere; he can’t move dem.’ Such is the blank wall of ignorance we are up against here.

June 3. — Decided to have a field of my own and try to show these people that other kinds of vegetables can be raised besides the few they know here. Leased a tract of swamp land from the Crown at one shilling and sixpence per year. Have sent to Nassau for seed, and am now starting out to be a truck gardener. The people all laugh at the idea of a white man knowing anything about farming. The land is covered with a growth of tough, useless bush and small trees. A machete is all that is needed to cut it down, and I put in a couple of hours each afternoon at this.

June 12. — Field is all cut and the bush dried. Set a match to it to-day and it is burning off merrily. Can see the bright glare above the crest of Comaband Hill. Must now wait for a rain to cool it off before planting.

June 19. — J. F. was at the Baptist meetinghouse in Bennett’s Harbor, and tells me that the preacher asked: ‘Brederen, how would yer know de Lord ef He was to come in dis church dis evening?’ No answer. The question was repeated in a shout. Still no answer. ‘Ah, brederen,’ said the preacher, ‘ I see how you is all forgotten dem pictures I showed you ob de Master. Don’t you know how you would know de Lord? Brederen,’ with great vehemence, ‘you would know Him by His w’iskers.’

In a way it is laughable, but on the other hand there is real sadness in such ignorance.

July 20. — Kept awake all last night by the noises of a ‘wake’ over the body of a Baptist person who has just died. I am sure death is the greatest amusement these people have. They wailed and screamed all night. I am told they must have fried fish and coffee as the regulation refreshments. A plate of fish and a cup of coffee are put outside the door for the spirit to come and feast upon. No one must go outside for some hours after these are put out. When they do go they invariably find the fish and coffee gone. They refuse to believe my explanation that the numerous ownerless dogs that are such a pest in the village have something to do with the disappearance of the food.

August 1. —This is the beginning of a big week for these people. All work is suspended and they will give themselves over to a full week of merrymaking and dancing, in celebration of the Emancipation of the Slaves. Rode up to the Creek to-day to see the launching of a new boat. The people danced all day and are still at it now.

September 20. — The longest ride yet. Purchased a fine horse at the Bight and left there Thursday. The boys traveled by boat.

Friday morning pushed on to Gaiter’s. Here T—, the local Baptist preacher, put me up for the night. Boat got in long after dark, but T— gave me a real banquet: pea soup, hot johnnycake, roasted cassava, fried chicken, fresh boiled crabs — the land variety, of which we eat only the delicious red eggs; coffee, and an abundance of fruit. T—, who is very pious, woke me up before dawn reading family prayers before starting for the fields.

Left Gaiter’s this morning soon after sunup, and made Roker’s by 10 A. M. The scenery along the shore is beautiful, but the road, which is a mere track through the bush, is terrible. Had some brasiletto tea at Roker’s, and made Bennett’s Harbor at noon. Here I could only get a bottle of beer, lukewarm, and not at all refreshing. None of these poor homes ever have any reserve supply of food.

September 22. — All packed and awaiting the mail, but there seem to be indications of a hurricane in this vicinity and we may have to wait days for it.

September 23. — Blowing a gale all day, and crops are suffering terribly. The salt spray has blown into our garden and dried up everything as if a fire had swept over it. All my efforts have been wasted.

September 26. — Still no mail, and the wind is increasing. Being cut off like this, we have no means of knowing if there really is a hurricane approaching, but all boats have been hauled up, as the seamen are sure it is coming. If it does, it will mean terrible suffering and dire poverty for these people for a long time to come.

October 2. — Mail came in to-day, and we are now on the way to Nassau. The captain says they were bottled up at Long Island for three days, and he is sure that the tail end of a hurricane passed by us. Left the island with terrible misgivings, as it seems possible that I shall not return. Did not dare to let the people know of my change of plans, as it would have made an awful scene. I believe they are really devoted to me, and I am sure I have lost my heart to all of them — so poor, so ignorant, but so affectionate and generous, probably the happiest and most contented people in the world.